


The Sparks That Did It

by mellish



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: AU, Boss!Gokudera, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-31
Updated: 2010-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not his fault the bomb drops. Fill for erosduos ficfest on lj. Prompt: Gokudera/Yamamoto - AU where Gokudera is a mafia don and Yamamoto is an apprentice hitman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sparks That Did It

New ones are always a massive headache. Breaking them in is the problem, making them swear their loyalty to you. Gokudera isn't the type to take chances, and always does this part personally, holding dynamite between his fingers and smoking out of the corner of his mouth. People don't just get _into_ this business; there's always one reason or another - revenge, ambition, etcetera, he doesn't really give a fuck as long as the person is useful, and it doesn't directly conflict with the Family's interests. He shoves the fistful of burning fuses right up against the recruit's face, waits for the widening of eyes, the sputter followed by honesty or bravado.

Instead: "Where did you get those scars?"

White crosses, on his knuckles. A run-in with a perverted bastard from that rival family five years ago, and beneath it, burn marks from an experiment gone wrong. He considers. No shaking, good posture, neat-looking - not plastered on, like he'd cleaned up just for this, more natural. Blade-user, they told him, and before he could retaliate with _fuck, send him out, who the hell still uses blades?_ they'd shown him the records, the evidence, the reassurance that he was one of the best they could get. It's hard to believe when the man in question is wearing a stupid grin, like he's an awkward teenager and not at all fit to be in the mafia.

Gokudera pinches the wicks out with his fingers, observing how the new guy's eyelashes don't even flutter. "You don't get to ask me questions," he growls, "Until you've earned the right to."

\---

His name is Yamamoto and he sticks out like a sore thumb, looks like an idiot with a fedora, carries pinstripes unnaturally well. He's as good as they say he is, too, but sometimes he seems too fearless, too easygoing, and this is not something Gokudera approves of. Why he sailed away from his beloved Japan is still a mystery - the sharp clip of his accent underlies his Italian, and he always asks for rice with his meals. Everyone adores him, that funny foreign dude, and sometimes his idiocy rubs off on them and they forget to quail in Gokudera's presence.

The first time he takes Yamamoto along on a mission he's surprised at the fabled efficiency, the swift strokes that bring down the enemy, the graceful arc of blood he leaves on the floor. Gokudera looks at his face, at the barely noticeable change in his eyes, some kind of new light in them. Maybe it's just the reflection of his sword. Yamamoto turns to him and asks, "That good?" and Gokudera nods, curtly, even as he's thinking _yes. Maybe even better._ Yamamoto moves up the ranks accordingly, starts getting entrusted with bigger things, but _trusted_ \- not quite. Anger and intimidation don't work; Gokudera resorts to the cold shoulder, because he knows he has to watch his back with upstarts like him.

Yamamoto seems unfazed. Before Gokudera knows it he's slipping into his office at random hours, asking "What can I do for you?" and if there's nothing to do he just sits there, polishing his blade or reading his fucking Italian dictionary.

\---

It's not his fault the bomb drops, though maybe the knife wedged in his elbow makes him slower than usual; he flings up both arms to cover his face but Yamamoto is already there in front of him, full-body-shield like he's in some fucking action film. There's no time to count down to the explosion, redwhite and burning, his vision a haze of fire consuming fire even as their back-up rushes in, picks them up, drags them away. Later, in the infirmary, Gokudera finds himself sitting up in a panic, because sacrifices are for the head of the family and no one else.

Yamamoto is in the bed next to his, bandages over his chest and arms, but apparently awake and breathing. What the hell are these people thinking, doesn't he get a private room anymore? "Too many injured," Yamamoto supplies, noting his expression, and Gokudera tries to ignore how relieved he seems. Tells himself Yamamoto can't guess what he's thinking.

\---

One week later they've fallen into routine again, or whatever the fuck this is, Gokudera sighing over a bunch of papers and realizing for the enth time that this shit is hard. He catches himself thinking _I never wanted this_ , and smothers it with rage and smoke.

"Can I help you with that?" Yamamoto walks over to Gokudera's desk in yet another attempt to be useful.

"No, because you don't have any fucking brains," and even when he is being explicitly rude Yamamoto's thick skull keeps him from _understanding_.

"Okay, maybe not." Yamamoto laughs. "How about this," and there's no warning, just him bending over the table, reaching out a hand to tug at Gokudera's tie, and their lips meeting, clumsy-rough and awful.

Later Yamamoto has new bruises to deal with, but when Gokudera sputters "What - what - what the _fuck_ ," he just says, "You looked tense," like it all makes perfect sense.

\---

Yamamoto has obviously gone through a thrashing by the time Gokudera finally gets to him, blowing the door open. He doesn't even use dynamite - the smoke could take both of them out, there's no time for risky calculations - and whips out his gun, three clicks neatly whistling their way into the back of someone who seconds ago had been beating Yamamoto with a crowbar. That sort of crude preference in weapons makes his lip curl in disgust, even as he drops to his knees and slides Yamamoto, still handcuffed, half-onto his shoulder.

"You're such a stupid shithead, didn't I - I _told_ you not to go ahead," he seethes.

"Boss," Yamamoto croaks. He drags. One or both legs broken. Fuck.

"You are such a fucking rookie," Gokudera mumbles as he stumbles out, trying to be careful, ignoring the way his heart is banging, how he knows it's not the danger.

\---

"It was my dad, you know," Yamamoto confides, one late night (early morning?) in his office. They're splayed on the couch, too exhausted even to do this properly, kind of just fumbling around each other's necks, faces, with their fingers. Lips. Eventually Gokudera props his feet up on Yamamoto's lap and lights up, wonders how the hell this fits into his definition of relaxing. When did this become acceptable?

"What about your dad?"

"I became a hitman because I was angry, after they'd gotten him. Before that I didn't think I could take the violence."

Gokudera takes this in, connects it with the underworld, how it doesn't suit Yamamoto at all. He grunts thoughtfully in reply.

Yamamoto traces a circle around one of Gokudera's knees. "Can I ask you questions now?"

Gokudera shrugs. Yamamoto leans over and kisses him on the chin, rakes his fingers through Gokudera's hair. Then he dips down a little lower, and whispers against his neck, "That good?"

"Yes," Gokudera admits. Maybe even better.


End file.
